


Canon in Rodney McKay

by kisahawklin



Series: Variations [2]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-21
Updated: 2009-02-21
Packaged: 2017-10-03 00:22:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kisahawklin/pseuds/kisahawklin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now that Rodney's found a Sheppard, what does he do with him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Canon in Rodney McKay

John has no idea who the guy in the weird not-quite-twenties vintage getup is, but there's something familiar about him. John's never met the guy or anyone like him, but he just feels _right_.

Now John's got him in his car and they're driving away from the airstrip and -

"So what's for dinner?" Rodney asks, breaking into John's rambling thoughts.

"Chinese," John says automatically, though as soon as the words are out of his mouth he regrets them. The best Chinese place is the one by his house. He should have said something closer to town, somewhere fancy and expensive.

"Cheap date," Rodney says, and John can feel his face heat up, but it doesn't stop him from opening his mouth again.

"What can I say, I'm easy." _Oh god._ "So, there's an original _Space Trek_ marathon on tonight."

Rodney glances over at him, and John twists his hands on the wheel, carefully not looking back. "What, you don't like sci-fi?"

"Love it," Rodney says casually, and turns to look out the window. "It's pretty here," he says, sounding distracted, and as John looks at the view of Sauvie Island from the St. John's bridge, he has to agree.

"Never been to Oregon before?" John doesn't think Rodney's been to planet Earth before, judging by what he's wearing and the weird intense way he stares at people when he talks to them.

"No," Rodney answers quietly. He's examining his hands now, looking at them as if they might tell him how to make small talk. "Have you lived here long?"

John has a canned story for this, the one he tells anyone who asks too much about his past, but inexplicably, he finds himself telling Rodney the truth.

"Ran away when I was sixteen," John says. "Oregon was about as far as I could get from home and still be in the same country."

Rodney nods, like he was expecting that. He doesn't pry, either.

"I bet you like curry," Rodney says.

"And I bet," John says, because somehow he knows he's right, "you like noodles."

* * *

"I can't believe you've never seen _Space Trek_," John says, because if ever there was a sci-fi dork of the first magnitude, this is the guy. "The one with the fuzzy things-"

"Tribbles?" Rodney asks, and John squints at him. _Troobles_.

"Something like that. So you _have_ seen it." That makes John feel better, like the world is spinning the right direction again.

Rodney nods. His hands move restlessly, a monologue missing a voice. He gets the impression that Rodney used to talk a lot.

"Come on," John says, waving Rodney into his living room. He's fucked up by inviting the guy over, he might as well make the most of his mistake. If the weird, gorgeous guy is only going to stick around for three days (did he really _pay_ for John for three days? That's kind of creepy), then John's going to take advantage of what little time he has.

He flips on the TV, already tuned to channel thirty-eight and the episode with the evil doubles is on. John laughs as he sets the bag of Chinese on the coffee table. This is one of his favorite episodes. He pulls out the box of rice and sets it aside. He has a feeling Rodney doesn't eat rice, and he's certainly not going to waste any stomach space on it. There's curry, lo mein, dumplings, and rangoons, and John takes out the boxes and lines them up neatly. He turns around to ask if Rodney wants a plate or silverware or something - somehow he knows Rodney doesn't, but it seems polite to ask - when he realizes Rodney's rooted to the spot, staring at the TV.

"What?" Sheppard asks.

Rodney turns his head sharply to look at John. He feels pinned by Rodney's intense stare, like Rodney's trying to get inside his bones, map him right down to the cellular level.

"Nothing," Rodney says, but his voice isn't the steady tenor John's already used to. "There's just so much wrong with the theory, I don't even know where to start."

"Theory? There's actual theory behind _Space Trek_?" John grins, and Rodney finally starts moving toward the couch. John plops himself down smack dab in the center of it, so Rodney snags a box - rangoons, it turns out - and settles in with a comfortable six inches of space between them.

"The fact that they return to that particular reality several times over the course of the series is ridiculous. The likelihood of returning to the same reality is astronomically slim," Rodney says, and something about the authoritative sound of his voice makes John think that he might actually know what he's talking about.

"Wait, so theoretically speaking, there really _are_ infinite alternate realities?" John asks. He supposes if he thinks about it, it's not the most ridiculous trope of the sci-fi genre, but it seems far from plausible.

"Yes, of course," Rodney says. "There are evil John Sheppards and married John Sheppards and hero John Sheppards and dogcatcher John Sheppards. There are realities where humans don't exist. Realities where the telephone or airplane or washing machine was never invented. Realities that are so far advanced technologically that humans have ascended and live as pure energy."

_Wow_, John thinks, blinking stupidly. _He sure can talk_. Part of his mind is trying to absorb what Rodney said, infinite possibilities and did he say something about a dogcatcher? John licks his lips and jerks his eyes up to Rodney's when he notices he's staring at Rodney's mouth.

"Are you simple?" Rodney asks, and John has to twist that around in his mind for a minute before he understands that Rodney's asking if he's stupid.

He laughs, shaking his head at Rodney's skeptical look. "I'm no genius," John says, continuing to chuckle, "but I can hold my own."

Rodney looks at him dubiously.

John ignores him and decides to go for the dumplings. He picks one up with his fingers and sucks half of it into his mouth, letting his eyes flutter closed. The low moan is only partially for Rodney's benefit. He pops the other half into his mouth and turns to look at Rodney, who is staring at him, open-mouthed.

"They're good," John says around a mouthful of dumpling. "You should try one."

"Okay," Rodney says, grabbing John's wrist and sucking two fingers into his mouth.

John swallows loudly. "_Fuck_, McKay."

Rodney makes a low noise in the back of his throat and looks up at John as he slowly pulls his mouth off John's fingers. John has no idea how his heart is racing so fast when every drop of blood in his body has just gone straight to his dick, but it's pumping like he's running a 10k straight up Mount Hood.

"Pretty good," Rodney says, and the sound of his voice pushes John over the edge. He politely takes Rodney's box of rangoons and sets it on the table next to him. He'd laugh at Rodney's mournful look, but it morphs pretty quickly into surprise when John stands up, kneels on the couch straddling Rodney's legs, and sits down squarely on Rodney's lap.

"Um," Rodney says, and if the sound of Rodney's voice wasn't enough to practically get him off, Rodney's indecisiveness nearly seals the deal. John can feel his fucking pulse in his dick, and he's not going to need a whole lot to finish him off.

"Shut up," John says, reeling Rodney in by his shirt collar and planting his mouth firmly on Rodney's to make sure he obeys the order.

As it turns out, Rodney McKay is incapable of obeying orders, and he hooks his thumbs into John's beltloops, pulls him in until his crotch is snugged against Rodney's pelvis, and moans John's name into his mouth - the single hottest thing John has ever heard.

Rodney reaches for his zipper, lowering it slowly, and the juxtaposition of slightly more room for his cock and Rodney's hand being near enough to push into makes him think he might have an aneurysm if Rodney doesn't touch him in the next thirty seconds.

Then Rodney dips his fingers into the waistband of John's jeans to undo the button, and brushes them over the tip of John's cock. "_F-f-fuuuuck_," John stutters, shuddering and coming inelegantly all over the waistband of his boxers and his favorite black oxford.

He closes his eyes and tips his head back. It's been a while, sure, but he's never had _that_ bad a showing before. Something about Rodney's voice just about undoes him again when he asks, tentatively, "John?"

"Sorry," John says, looking down into Rodney's puzzled blue eyes. "It's... I haven't... in a while."

"Happy to oblige," Rodney says with a lopsided grin, and John smiles through the heat he can feel on his cheeks.

"You want me to..." John waves his hand vaguely in the general direction of where he's sitting on Rodney's lap. "I could-"

Rodney slides his hands under John's ass, and if he hadn't come two seconds ago, John knows his dick would be perking up. Rodney shoves forward on the couch, forcing John to put his hands on Rodney's shoulders to keep his balance. In an impressive display of strength, Rodney stands up easily with John held against him like he weighs nothing at all. John's stomach lurches and he wraps his legs around Rodney's torso, thinking this bodes well for wall sex in their future.

"Bedroom?" Rodney asks, and John would be embarrassed by his breathlessness as he tells Rodney it's at the end of the hall, but he just had the best orgasm of his life from someone _undoing his jeans_. He's entitled to a little anticipation of what's going to happen when full blown nakedness comes into the picture.

Rodney tips them down on to John's bed, one knee between John's legs, and slides his hands up John's back until they're cupping John's shoulder blades. "Lube?" Rodney asks. "Condoms?"

"You didn't bring condoms?" John asks, surprised.

"What?" Rodney asks indignantly. "I thought I was getting a flying lesson." At John's quirked eyebrow he adds, "And that's _not_ a euphemism."

"In the bathroom," John says, and Rodney sighs. He brings his hands up even further, until they're cradling John's neck and skull, and he leans in to kiss John lightly, the tip of his tongue flicking out to tease John's upper lip.

"Stay here," Rodney whispers into his mouth, and John's about to protest when Rodney takes his hands and curls them around the slats in the headboard. "Stay here."

John nods almost imperceptibly, and only once. Rodney doesn't acknowledge it, turning his back on John to go into the bathroom and rummage around in John's medicine cabinet. It's brusque-sounding, an impersonal shuffle of Q-tips and toothpaste, and it's not long before Rodney returns, his treasure clutched in his hands.

He sets them on the nightstand and moves to the foot of the bed, unlacing John's boots and pulling them off. John knows how bad his feet must smell; the boots are old and he's been wearing them for sixteen hours today. Rodney doesn't seem to notice, he just peels off John's socks and drops them on top of the boots. John watches with blatant curiosity for a while, but being the focus of Rodney's attention is like staring into the sun, so he closes his eyes and enjoys the warmth of it on his skin instead.

John's jeans come down next, pulled off and deposited on top of the growing pile. The boxers stay on while Rodney unbuttons John's shirt, carefully pulling each button through its buttonhole like he's trying to coax a reticent child to do his bidding. He tugs one arm down from the headboard to unsheathe it and then the next, and finally he lifts John's torso off the bed to slide his shirt out from underneath. John watches Rodney's biceps flex and release as he moves John around like a rag doll.

When John is completely naked save his dogtags and wristband, twisting his hands nervously around the slats of his headboard, Rodney stands up and stares at him. John's never been shy about his body, but he's never been studied before either. He has an urge to pose, if he could do it without moving his hands. Instead he lies still, watching Rodney make his observations and ticking a list of faults off in his head. Too-long torso, check, scrawny legs, check, too hairy, che-

"What's your recovery time?" Rodney asks, effortlessly driving every thought out of John's head.

"I... I..." _haven't had to worry about it in years_, John thinks. _I don't know, can't remember._

"All right then," Rodney says matter-of-factly. "Let's take a baseline reading."

Rodney's still in his vintage jacket. He hasn't taken off a single piece of clothing, he's completely untouched. John releases the headboard and starts to sit up, but Rodney shakes his head. "I'll get there, Sheppard, don't rush me."

Rodney glances at his watch and unstraps it from his wrist. It's not digital, and John can barely remember the last time he saw an analog watch. The time is completely wrong - and something isn't quite right with the watch face either, but John can't make it out.

He lies back down, winding his hands around the headboard again. He likes the feel of the wood under his hands, solid.

Rodney finally removes his jacket and shoes, adding them to the heap of clothing at the end of the bed. He stands still for a moment - John can almost see the gears grinding - then shucks the rest of his clothes too. John watches greedily as Rodney's arms and legs and chest are bared.

The last thing Rodney takes off are dogtags of his own. He's not a soldier, John knows it like he knows Rodney's seen war. That means the dogtags are personal, and the fact that he's willing to take them off...

For the first time in the hours that John's known Rodney McKay, he looks uncertain. John can't imagine why.

"C'mere," John says, low-down and dirty, and Rodney does; he struts over to John and leans down like he's going to kiss... and nips at John's tricep instead.

Rodney kneels on the bed and runs a hand up John's side like he's regained his train of thought, which makes John close his eyes and swallow convulsively.

"You're going to tell me everything you like," Rodney says, and John can't remember the last time he even thought about what he liked, much less the last time he'd been asked. "And then, I'm going to find all the things you never even knew you liked."

John shivers. His cock is already starting to take an interest in the proceedings, though it doesn't do more than give an exhausted twitch. _Wake the fuck up_, John thinks, but even if he's not getting his typical post-coital nap, his dick is definitely down for the count.

"Don't worry," Rodney says as he rubs his thumb over the bite on John's tricep. "We've got plenty of time."

John ticks off the only pleasurable things he can remember - his palms, his neck, and his most recent discovery, his triceps, and Rodney spends forever licking and sucking and biting. When Rodney moves on to uncharted territory, John finds out his knees are ticklish, and he really likes his balls being sucked on, and his nipples actually do something for him if they're bitten. Repeatedly.

When Rodney turns him over, he's feeling heavy again, not quite ready for a second go-round, but getting there. Rodney spends time on all the muscles of his back, and his tongue in the hollow of John's shoulder blade fast becomes John's favorite thing, though the slow slide of Rodney's fingers down his spine is winding the anticipation up tight. His shoulder blade goes cool where Rodney's mouth has left it and the shift of Rodney's weight means that he's reaching for the lube, and John is definitely on board with this plan.

When Rodney's tongue returns, it isn't to John's shoulder. John can't quite tell when Rodney replaces his fingers on John's spine with his tongue, but when he reaches the top of John's ass, John can't do anything but moan incoherently as Rodney's tongue darts into the crevice and is followed by one finger, and then another, and then Rodney is pulling his cheeks apart and tonguing his hole and John's moan takes on a needy sound, a cry for more, or maybe for mercy.

"Forty-nine minutes," Rodney says as he wraps his hand around John's cock, smugness permeating the words. "Pretty respectable for a man your age."

"Nnnngggh," John answers, trying everything in his power to makes his lips work enough to say _fuck you_.

"I heard that," Rodney says, and John vaguely wonders if Rodney's telepathic. It would explain some of the weird. "Now that we've got you here, let's see how long it lasts, mmm?"

Rodney presses John up onto his knees, settling himself between them. He's stopped rimming, and John can feel his pulse backing down to something less frantic, something that doesn't feel like it's going to beat its way out of his chest.

And then Rodney pops the cap on the lube, and John's heart starts racing again.

John has to rest his head while Rodney puts the condom on and starts to open him with a single finger, then two. He doesn't care that he looks like a goddamn whore, his ass sticking up, begging for Rodney to just _fuck him already_. He doesn't care because he can see Rodney out of the corner of his eye, he can see that Rodney doesn't look anywhere near as in control as he sounds.

John feels slightly guilty for not being more active in all this, for letting Rodney run the show and sitting back, taking everything like it's his due, but he intends to return the favor, tonight, if Rodney doesn't break him, or tomorrow if a triple play is too much to ask of his out-of-practice cock.

Rodney takes a while to find his prostate, but when he hits it, John feels the pins and needles and lifts his chest off the bed. "Mmm," Rodney hums, and that's the last coherent thing John can piece together through the haze of sensation soaking into his trembling limbs. He _thinks_ he can tell when Rodney finally enters him, but it's really just one more sensation in the thousands that have him ready and waiting and waiting and waiting. He's on the edge of his orgasm forever, begging for it, pleading and bitching.

John's cursing between bouts of 'please, Rodney' and finally a plaintive whine escapes him. Why that is what gets Rodney out of his almost trance-like rhythm, he doesn't know, but he's just grateful to shift and move, take a break from the pounding of constant pleasure. "Let go," Rodney whispers, and John can barely hear it over the thundering sound of the blood thumping in his ears.

John releases the headboard as Rodney lifts him up and back, and suddenly he's sitting on Rodney's lap again, with Rodney whispering in his ear, his own mantra of "John, John, John." One hand is sweeping across John's chest, and the other gripping John's cock, and John finally falls over the edge of the cliff he's been walking for hours.

Rodney groans as John comes in a spectacular mess on the bed, and then Rodney's coming too, and John arches his back, letting his head fall back onto Rodney's shoulder. Rodney's arms come tight around him, and he closes his eyes and listens to their breathing return to normal.

* * *

"Dumplings," Rodney murmurs, and John swats him. He was almost asleep.

"I'm hungry," Rodney says, and John sighs loudly and puts a pillow over his head. He throws it off when a glop of semen smears across his cheek.

"Gross," John says, but Rodney doesn't hear him; he's bouncing off the bed and back to the living room, most likely to grab the Chinese. John hopes he brings it back to the bedroom and doesn't just sit down on his couch naked.

He gives up on sleep, since his stomach woke up when he gave himself a facial with his come, and strips the bed while he waits for Rodney to get back. Good thing he's a lazy bastard and has six sheet sets because he hates to do laundry.

He dumps the sheets into the hamper and decides a quick shower is in order. He turns on the water and wanders into the living room while he waits for it to heat up.

Rodney's standing in front of him, carton in hand, eating the last of his dumplings. "Bastard!" John yells, and tries to tackle him. Rodney sidesteps him neatly, hopping onto the couch and sending John face down onto the carpet. He sneezes.

"Those were mine," he whines, turning over. Now that he's prone again his body is clamoring for sleep, and if the carpeting wasn't so itchy, he'd be inclined to consider it.

"Whatever," Rodney says, stepping off the couch and hauling John up with one hand. It's awkward and graceless, but Rodney has more than enough muscle to get John forcibly to his feet again. When he does, he holds out a dumpling. "I was saving some for you."

John takes the dumpling and sucks the meat out of it before chewing on the wrapper. "Mmmph," he says, and Rodney nods in agreement.

"Shower," John says, grabbing the other dumpling out of Rodney's carton before heading back down the hallway. He doesn't wait to see Rodney's expression, but he's gratified to hear him come rumbling down the hallway half a minute later.

John takes his time in the shower, pushing Rodney under the spray and soaping him up, learning the planes of his body with slick hands. No matter how much of Rodney's skin he touches and tastes, it all feels insubstantial, like Rodney could melt away under the water, like sandcastles when the tide comes in.

John figures it's been about an hour when he slides down onto his knees and takes Rodney into his mouth, and he knows it's not a scientific measurement or anything, but the feel of Rodney's cock thickening in his mouth means it doesn't really matter anyway.

* * *

When John wakes up the next morning, he feels the heavy weight of McKay's stare before he feels the warmth of his body spooned behind him. John's never been a romantic, or a cuddler, but something about Rodney makes him feel at ease, comfortable, _safe_.

"I know you're awake," Rodney says, and John cracks a smile but keeps his eyes closed.

"'m not."

"Okay," Rodney says, and rests his head on John's shoulder. "I could sleep."

Rodney strums his hand over John's chest, a soft sweep of fingertips over his pecs. John drowses and dreams of flying.

When he finally wakes up for real, Rodney's sprawled on his back, his hand having moved to rest on John's waist, not petting anymore, just a firm weight on John's skin. John rolls over and curls up against Rodney, who looks at him with a soft warmth in his eyes. John smiles back, incapable of avoiding it in the surge of affection he feels for Rodney.

"Want that flying lesson?" John asks, because the sky's the only thing he has to give.

Rodney doesn't answer for a second, silent and still as he thinks through his answer. "Yeah," he says, "yeah, I'd like that."

* * *

John waves at Mac as he skips the office and goes straight to Andromeda to get her ready to go up. Rodney watches from a distance, standing shoulder to shoulder with Mac when they come out of the office.

When Andromeda's is ready to go, John nods Rodney over and helps him in, helping him with the many buckles and snaps of the seat belt. Rodney doesn't look scared, though John is fairly certain he doesn't really enjoy flying, if his tight-lipped scowl is anything to go by.

"You've flown before," John says, and Rodney snorts.

"Of course, everybody's flown before," Rodney answers, but John doesn't let him get off that easy.

"I mean, you've been up in a small craft. In the cockpit."

Rodney shrugs, his eyes skipping over all the dials and switches. John doesn't waste his breath explaining.

They taxi and take off, and Rodney stares out the window, just like he did last night in John's car. John plays tour guide and points out the highlights. Everybody likes the mountains from up here, but he hasn't gotten past pointing out Mount Saint Helens when he realizes Rodney's staring at the ocean.

"Not a mountain person?" John asks.

Rodney shrugs. "I used to live in the ocean," he says. John can't decide if he misheard or if Rodney really _is_ as weird as he seems, but Rodney adds, "Technically, I guess it was _on top_ of the ocean," and John can't do anything but laugh.

Rodney never asks to take over, and John doesn't offer, knowing Rodney's only up here because John asked, because John loves flying like nothing else in his life.

"Why did you want a lesson?" John asks, because this should be starting to creep him out a bit, but he still feels sucked in like the McKay is a planet with his own gravity and John is caught in its inevitable pull.

Rodney looks at him, his eyes hidden behind shades identical to his own, and says, "I have something to show you."

* * *

They drive out to Hillsboro. Rodney drives this time, in his rental car, but he doesn't remember the way, and John has to navigate with the address on a warehouse rental bill and the road atlas he nearly sits on when he gets in.

"There," John says, pointing to a ramshackle building with more than half its windows broken. "I don't think your stuff is still going to be there."

"That's what you think," Rodney says, and parks the car. He produces a tiny key to unlock the padlock on the gigantic garage door - bigger that any semi he's ever seen, big enough for a small aircraft to get in and out, maybe.

"Listen, John," Rodney says, and that makes John watch him a little closer. "I need to tell you some things, things that are pretty unbelievable."

John smirks. He's not sure what he's expecting, but unbelievable sounds about right.

"Let me start by showing you something, and then we can talk about it, okay?" Rodney swings the door open, and the space is completely empty.

"Told you so," John says, but Rodney's not surprised or upset. He pulls out a tiny device that looks like a laser pointer, and points it at the middle of the empty space.

A _thing_, a tilty, tin can-looking thing, swims into view, and John can't do anything but stare. He can see through the windshield into the body of it, and there are two chairs at the front that look suspiciously like a pilot and co-pilot's seat.

"Want to go for a ride?" Rodney asks, and presses another button on the laser pointer. The hatch at the back of it lowers, and John's heart stutters. He has the same feeling about this thing that he does about Rodney - this is home, or a part of home, anyway. He steps up the gangplank and feels it hum around him, like a welcome.

"She likes you," Rodney says, with a wounded air. He gets over it quickly though, grinning at John like he's just done something cool. "Of course she does. This is Teyla. She's a puddlejumper."

"Puddlejumper?" John asks, grateful to have a name for the tin can. "It looks like a spaceship."

"It is," Rodney says, sounding pleased that John figured that out on his own. "But she's not made to cross great distances. Well, in a straight shot, anyway."

John's listening with half an ear, slowly making his way to what is obviously a cockpit. "I've modified Teyla some. She's got two engines, and several special modifications, all of my own design."

"What's Teyla mean?" John asks, wondering if it's an acronym for some space program he's never heard of.

Rodney makes a choked noise and John turns around to see him wrestling with tears. He has a surprisingly expressive face for someone who has so many secrets.

"She was a friend," Rodney finally answers. "Someone I wanted to remember when I left."

"You built this," John says, knowing he would doubt Rodney's sanity if he hadn't just seen the thing decloak in front of him.

"No," Rodney says. "Pay attention. I said I made some modifications. She was built by the Ancients."

That sounds like a load of New Age hooey to John, but he's standing in the back of a spaceship, and she's vibrating under his feet like she wants him to move, to head toward the cockpit. He obliges her.

"What kind of modifications?" John asks, running a hand over the strange metal of the wall. "A second engine, you said. Obviously a cloak or something like that."

"The cloak was done by the Ancients too," Rodney says, sounding a little peeved. "But I altered it so it can be a shield instead of a cloak." He looks strangely guilty, and his eyes slide away from John's. "Zelenka might have helped with that. A little."

John huffs a little, amused by the strange necessity to admit something John would have no way of checking. "And Zelenka is?"

He's not really paying attention, he just likes the sound of Rodney's voice, and it keeps him from feeling like he's dreaming, or having a psychotic break.

"Weird little guy, glasses, flyaway hair, not half as stupid as everyone else in Atlantis," Rodney says, and that's enough for John to jerk around to look at him.

"Atlantis?"

"Um," Rodney says, fidgeting in a way John would have thought him incapable of from the forty or so hours they've spent together. He would've bet a great deal that McKay didn't have any insecurities, or at least that it was pretty tough to fluster him. John lets it go; either Rodney will tell him or he won't, and John finds it doesn't matter to him much if he doesn't know the details.

"Why did you leave?" he asks, because there's no way he'd leave someplace that had spaceships and women named Teyla.

Rodney pulls into himself then, looking small and a little tired. "I lost something."

"Can I fly her?" John asks quickly, desperate for a distraction. Rodney'd come into his life like an avalanche, taking down all the entrenched trees of his resistance like the feeble excuses for social barriers they were. This vulnerability makes John feel off balance, like the hook McKay's been reeling him in on is tugging again, right beneath his breastbone.

"Of course," Rodney says, safely sidetracked. "That's why I brought you here."

John turns back around, crossing the threshold into the cockpit and stepping right up to the pilot's seat.

There are four pictures taped to the console off to the side of the display. One of a beautiful woman holding a baby - Teyla, he guesses, and wonders if the baby is Rodney's. Another of a large man with long dreadlocks, clutching a smaller man about the middle - Zelenka, judging by the wild hair and glasses - as if he's holding him up to the camera. There's one of a group of people, in variations on military and civilian uniforms.

He reaches for the last one, picks it up and looks at it closely. It's his face, you can't miss the pointy ears and the stubble that shows up ten minutes after he shaves, but it's most definitely not him. This person has hard lines on his face, age and care and responsibility.

"Rodney?" John asks, because while that's not him in the picture, it still _is_ and he can't quite wrap his head around what's happening here. "Want to explain this?"

Rodney takes the picture from him and looks down on it sadly. "This is the John Sheppard from my reality." He pulls the dogtags off over his head and drops them in John's palm.

"What do you mean, _your_ reality?" The world starts to spin, a _whir_ of thoughts coalescing as things Rodney's talked about click into place. "Alternate reality. You're really from an alternate reality?" He looks down at the dogtags. They're his. Almost. Lieutenant Colonel. He chuckles, and then laughs a little, and then it gets away from him, his disbelief draining from him with the tears leaking out of his eyes.

Rodney's not laughing, but he's smiling down at John fondly, and John guesses this isn't the first reality - or John Sheppard - Rodney's visited. "So, how many other realities have you been to?" he asks, returning the dogtags to Rodney.

Rodney loops the dogtags over his head and settles them under his shirt. "One hundred seventy-four, including my own."

John sits down hard in the pilot's chair. "How?"

Rodney takes a deep breath and sits in the co-pilot's seat. It feels familiar to have Rodney there, soothing. "Teyla's second engine is an alternate reality drive. We encountered one in my reality - built by an alternate version of me - and I reverse engineered it and fit it to the puddlejumper."

Rodney's talking with his hands, and John settles in, watching as he lets the tidal wave of Rodney's words wash over him.

"I'd met six other John Sheppards before I even left my reality," he looks at John almost apologetically, "and two Rodney McKays and a Meredith McKay." He snorts. "The first female me was quite a shock." John opens his mouth to say something, but can't decide what, and Rodney goes on without him.

"The one thing I noticed about all the Sheppards and McKays-" Rodney says, touching something on the dashboard, and then staring at the windshield intently. A display pops up, written on the air in front of their faces. "-was that every Sheppard trusted that his McKay would get him back, and the McKays always did."

John stares at the display, wondering what it calculates, and suddenly every measurement he can think of and several he'd never dreamed of pop up, all at once.

"Narrow your search," Rodney says. "Be more specific about what you want."

John thinks about their location, about local and topographical maps, which freaks him out a little as several layers of detail overlay on the screen. It changes to a simple map with two blinking red dots on it. He looks over at Rodney and sees him concentrating, face scrunched up.

"What's that?"

"Life signs," Rodney answers, and John blinks at the display. He never understood how it's possible - how can it measure whether or not something is alive? Temperature, pulse, consciousness? Why isn't it going crazy with all the bugs and birds and critters hanging around outside?

"So, you said all Sheppards trusted their McKays," John says, hoping to get Rodney talking again. He feels like Rodney's on the edge of explaining something that's going to change him irreparably, and while he can't tell if it's for better or worse, he can't stand not knowing.

"Mm hm," Rodney agrees, pressing a button that makes the display go away. "And the McKays also trusted the Sheppards. Meredith's Sheppard rescued her from my reality with a stupidly heroic move."

"You and your Sheppard," John asks, willing his throat to open, clearing it to show it who's boss. "You trusted each other?"

"Yeah," Rodney answers quietly. "Until he died."

John waits. It's no surprise that Rodney's Sheppard is dead; there's no way Rodney would have his dogtags otherwise. He wants to know what happened next. And what happened before. Mostly he wants to know if he's just a pale imitation of the John Sheppard Rodney is in love with.

"We were friends," Rodney says, in his semi-telepathic way. "I never even considered..." Rodney chokes a little and John's caught between wanting to comfort him and wanting to turn away and let him have his grief without embarrassment.

Rodney recovers before he can decide, and continues. "The alternate reality drive arrived eighteen months later, and the rest, as they say, is history."

"Where's the McKay in this reality?" John asks, avoiding all the questions he wants to ask but isn't sure he wants the answers to.

"Never born. My parents never met."

Rodney doesn't seem terribly upset about this. John wonders how different his life would've been if McKay had been born here. Suddenly he wants to stop talking about this - he wants to fly, go out and let the amazement about the improbable spaceship overtake the din of questions hammering at him from all sides.

"Can we take her out now?" John asks, and Rodney smiles at him, his grin broad and genuine.

Rodney nods, and John puts his hands on the controls. The display comes up and it's the most intuitive thing he's ever seen. Whatever indicator he thinks about displays across the bottom of the screen and the topographical map is in his peripheral vision just enough to be useful but not distracting.

He takes her out of the warehouse carefully, slowly enough that Rodney rolls his eyes. "You don't have to have that much skill to maneuver her, at least outside of a dogfight."

John shakes his head, pissed that he hadn't realized that, and accelerates, going nearly straight up, waiting for the familiar pull of gravity. It doesn't happen. It's almost like driving a car, but it doesn't even have the slight change in pressure that you get from acceleration. All in all, it's a little disappointing.

"Inertial dampeners," Rodney says, shrugging. "It's worth it, I promise."

"Can I take her out of atmosphere?" John asks, because that's the only thing that could really make this feel like flying and not a video game.

"Yeah," Rodney answers, his smile returning.

* * *

"So you've been living out of the puddlejumper for, what, nine months now?" John asks, leaning up on an elbow to look through the windshield at Earth. It's never going to get old. He looks down at Rodney, thoughtful but content beneath him, stretched out on sleeping bags. That's not going to get old either.

Rodney shuts his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Yes, nine months your time. Two years, mine."

"We have different ways of measuring time?" John asks, and that wasn't something he'd considered previously; somehow that's harder to believe than all the stories about the Wraith and the Goa'uld and Atlantis.

"Your Earth is slightly closer to the sun, yes," Rodney answers, "and rotates slower as well."

John doesn't have any idea what to think about that, it's so foreign, thinking of days that aren't thirty-two hours long, months that aren't all the same length. "That's what looks different about your watch," John says, grabbing Rodney's wrist to look at the face of it. "Twelve hours, not sixteen."

"Right," Rodney says, yawning. "Horrible jump-lag when things like this happen. It's the middle of the night for me."

"We could sleep," John says, settling back down and resting his head on Rodney's chest. He likes mid-afternoon naps when he can get them. He used to crash out on Mac's couch for a couple hours after lunch all the time.

"No, Teyla's going to jump in about twenty hours. I need to lay in some supplies and do laundry."

John sits up lightning fast and stares down at Rodney. "You're leaving?"

Rodney blinks at him. "I thought I made that clear." His fist clenches around the dogtags hanging down his neck.

"No, you did not make that clear," John says, and grabs his pants. This is not a conversation he wants to have naked.

"I can't let Teyla just keep jumping without me," Rodney says, putting a hand on John's calf. "What if she fell into the wrong hands?"

"So turn the drive off," John says, even though he knows it can't be as easy as that, but maybe it is. Rodney's the kind of guy that skips over the obvious because it's, well, _obvious_. "Keep her here with us."

"I can't," Rodney says. "The drive builds up energy until it has enough to jump. If you stop jumping, it keeps building and... kaboom." Rodney accentuates the sound with a surprisingly descriptive hand gesture.

"You don't want to stay," John says. He's not sure, but he thinks he's right. It's why Rodney feels so insubstantial, like a wisp of smoke about to be blown away by the wind.

Rodney shrugs. "I want you," he says simply. He turns to look out at the Earth revolving slowly beneath them. "I just don't want _that_."

John's breath comes back to him. For a second he thought his heart was just going to stop beating, go still in his chest. Now it's making up lost time, beating triple-time, loud enough that he can't believe Rodney hasn't heard it.

"Let me come with you."

Rodney turns to look at him, holding his gaze silently, long enough for drumming of John's heartbeat to fill the entire cabin.

"Mac?" Rodney asks.

"He'll understand."

"Rusty?"

"Mac'll take care of him."

Rodney continues to stare at him with an intensity that could melt skin and now there's no way John's going to look away first.

"It's dangerous," Rodney says.

"I don't care."

"And boring, sometimes."

John grins. "I bet I can think of a way to pass the time."

That breaks Rodney's steely composure, and he looks away. "I can't just drop you off at the nearest gas station if you don't like it."

John nods. Rodney's felt like home since the moment they met; Teyla's humming quiet agreement under his skin. "I want to."

"Okay," Rodney says, still not able to look at him. There's a brief doubt - Rodney's been doing this alone for a long time now, with only the shadow of his John Sheppard whispering in his ear.

"I'm only me, Rodney," John says, wanting to make this one thing perfectly clear.

"You're not." Rodney shakes his head a little. "But you'll understand soon enough."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much to [wiccanslyr](http://www.wiccanslyr.livejournal.com) and [](http://libitina.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**libitina**](http://libitina.dreamwidth.org/)! All remaining errors my own.


End file.
